Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (3 page)

I stumble out of bed and unbolt my door. Remy beams at me from the other side with blue doe eyes. She’s in a ratty T-shirt and striped cotton boxer shorts, but she still looks like Snow White with her flawless skin and elbow-length dark brown hair.

“Oh good,” she says, “you’re up.”

Well, I am now. “What’s up?”

Remy flops down face-first onto my bed. “Mrahhhhhhhhh,” she says into a pillow.

I climb into bed next to her. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Totally hear what you’re saying.”

Remy rolls onto her back. “I just got bitched out by Bea.”

I know who Beatrice Hartley, AKA Bea, is, because her face is plastered all over the Campus Life Council bulletin boards around the dorm. She’s a senior and she looks like a Banana Republic model. Her name is pronounced “Bee,” and lest anyone forget it, she has a bunch of bumblebee stickers on her door.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“Nothing. But it’s too late to make a deposit at the Radisson for the spring formal, and apparently that’s my fault because the SGA treasurer is responsible for that.” The Wheatley Student Government Association is not some nerdy group of mouth-breathers who sell candy bars. The officers are actually in charge of things. If you’re in the SGA, you’re a B.F.D.

Remy’s cheeks flood with color. “Meanwhile, Mr. President gets away with doing nothing because it’s crew season.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But you lost me at ‘spring formal’ and ‘Radisson.’”

So even the historic Wheatley School is not exempt from the obligatory dance in a hotel that probably smells like vomit from whatever sorority trashed it the night before. I want to laugh, but Remy is all worked up.

“I know it sounds lame, but it’s always a good time,” she says. “And everyone is going to blame me if we have to have the dance in the student-center ballroom.”

“Do you want me to yell at Brent for you?” I ask. Brent is the president of SGA. It’s no secret he only ran to piss off Alexis Westbrook, his archenemy and Senator Westbrook’s daughter. Now that the senator has resigned and is being investigated for paying off Dr. Harrow, Alexis’s family has relocated her to a new boarding school of bitchcraft and wizardry. Without Alexis to torment, Brent is kind of like a puppy that’s finally caught its tail.

“Well, he would listen to you.…” Remy’s voice trails off as she looks at me with hopeful eyes.

“Done,” I say. “But just so we’re clear, I’m doing it for you. I don’t do dances.”

“Anne!” Remy springs into sitting position. “It’s the only thing to look forward to besides the end of the year.”

I adjust my necklace so the silver heart pendant is facing forward. “I’ll think about it.” I mean it, too. I really don’t want to disappoint Remy; she was my first friend here after Isabella. And if I’m being honest, I’ve been a pretty terrible friend. In the short time I’ve known Remy, I’ve ditched her dozens of times to do snooping instead, and I even stole her ID card to get into her room and steal back an incriminating video of Alexis that Isabella made.

I’m desperate to change the subject. “Have you started the French essay yet?”

Remy’s forehead creases. “It’s not due ’til Thursday.”

I shake my head. “Tuesday.”

“April said it’s not due ’til Thursday.” Panic creeps into Remy’s voice.

I don’t say it, but April Durand is not the brightest glow stick at the rave. It’s not the first time she’s unknowingly passed along false information.

“Omigod, I have to check Blackboard.” Remy scrambles for my laptop, which is resting at the foot of my bed.

“Rem, chill. You still have two days to do the essay.”

Remy is staring at the screen of my laptop, her lips pinched together. “Anne, what is all this?”

“What?”

“You have, like, four tabs open on Matthew Weaver.”

I feel so blindsided I say the stupidest thing I’m capable of: “It’s nothing.”

“Seriously, Anne? This is straight up
weird.
”

“I was just curious.” My voice is so small and unconvincing. It used to be I could lie myself out of any situation. The thought that I might be losing my edge makes me straighten up and proclaim, “I was thinking it might be a good senior thesis topic.”

This makes Remy pause. Any other person would look at me like I’m nuts, since senior year and starting thesis is five months away. But Remy has already taken the SAT and ACT four times and has her summer college-visits itinerary all mapped out.

“You think you could get an entire thesis on him, though?” Remy asks. “I mean, there’s practically no information on that whole thing.” I don’t miss the way her voice has stiffened. “Plus, no one even knows what happened to him,” she says.

I think of the photo and the slanted handwriting on the back.

Someone
does
know.

CHAPTER

THREE

I’ve been expelled from my beloved Manhattan school, questioned as a person of interest in a murder investigation, and nearly shot to death in the woods, but I’m convinced Monday morning is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

I forgot to set my alarm last night, so I had to choose between going to breakfast and looking put-together for my first class. Under no circumstances would I ever forgo the second option, so I didn’t eat. I tried sneaking a granola bar into British literature, but Fowler, the crusty old bastard, caught me and yelled at me in front of the whole class.

When I get to Latin and see that everyone has a sheet of paper on the desk in front of them, I almost turn and walk out the door.

We had a one-page translation due today that I totally forgot about. Shit. Just shit.

If Professor Upton still taught this class, I’d add forgetting my homework to the lengthy list of reasons she hated me. But Upton retired in the midst of the Isabella–Dr. Harrow scandal.

Our new teacher, Ms. Cross, is way more awesome than any teacher at this school has the right to be. She’s young and always frazzled-looking in an adorable way, and she must be from the south because every now and then she lets a “y’all” slip out. The guys call her a TILF behind her back, and Lee Andersen, the hulking nerdy kid who sits across the aisle from me, now spends the class hunched over like he’s constantly trying to hide a Woody Woodpecker.

And he probably is. Lee’s a class-A creep, and I can say this without sounding like a judgmental bitch because I have proof he was stalking Isabella before she died. Professor Upton knew Lee was stalking Isabella, too, and when she went to Headmaster Goddard about it, he basically told her to keep her mouth shut.

Lee didn’t kill Isabella, but he could have. Upton must realize that now, because why else would she “retire” in the middle of the year?

Anyway, Ms. C is actually pretty cool, and she likes me. That’s why I’m so frustrated with myself for forgetting about the translation. I do the walk of shame to my table at the back of the room and don’t look up when Ms. C stops in front of me.

She doesn’t point out the obvious. Just smiles, tucks away a strand of hair that escaped from her bun, and says, “Anne, I was meaning to ask you to stop by my office sometime this week. After your last class.”

“Okay,” I say, but she’s already moving to the next table.

I decide not to delay the inevitable, which is probably Ms. C giving me the “You can do better” smackdown. After calculus, I head back to the humanities building and meander through the halls until I see her messy red bun in front of a computer.

I stand in the doorway and clear my throat. Ms. C jerks her head up and beams. “Anne. Hey. Come in. I’m just finishing up an e-mail.”

I sit across from her, noticing that the nameplate on the desk still reads
PROFESSOR DIANA UPTON
. Her office is mostly empty, save for a Boston Bruins pennant over her desk and a few unopened boxes.

Ms. C is in the middle of her lunch—cucumber salad—but she covers her Tupperware and pushes it aside. “So I’ve been here for three weeks, and this parent of a freshman has e-mailed me four times.” She shakes her head. “Your kid is at boarding school. Time to cut the cord.”

I crack a smile. I can’t believe she’s talking to me like this. It’s nice to know at least one teacher at the Wheatley School doesn’t have a stick up her ass.

“So,” Ms. C says. “I noticed on iCampus that you haven’t had an academic advising session yet.”

I vaguely remember my first day, and some woman at Student Support Services telling me I have two advisors: one academic and one for “resident life.” She also said I should make appointments with both as soon as possible. “Oh. My bad.”

“No worries,” Ms. C says. “You do know I’m your advisor now, right?”

That means Upton was my old advisor. Dodged a bullet there. “Sure, sure.”

“Basically I asked you here to remind you to start thinking about what classes you’d like to take next year. Registration starts at the end of the month.”

A bizarre feeling settles over me.
Next year.
From day one, it had always been my mission to make it back to New York for my senior year. I nod.

“Also, it’s time to put together a list of colleges for us to look into together.” Ms. C pulls up my schedule and grades on iCampus. “With your SAT scores, I think you could shoot for a couple tier-ones. As long as you pull some of these grades up.”

No doubt she’s referring to the B in her class. “I haven’t thought about college much. Except for maybe how to get around the expulsion on my transcript.”

A smile plays at the corners of Ms. C’s mouth. “Sometimes, it’s best to own up and explain your mistakes instead of trying to hide them.”

Somehow I doubt “that time I burned my school down” is going to win me any points with an admissions board.

“Where did you go to school?” I ask Ms. C.

She cocks her head at me, as if she’s surprised I asked. “I went to UNC. Chapel Hill.” She rolls her eyes. “Go Tar Heels.”

I think that’s when I decide I’m in love with her. She sends me off with a “Junior Year Checklist” of things I have not done, like
Schedule interview at first choice college
and
Take the ACT exam.

“Anne,” Ms. C says when I’m halfway out the door. “I’ll give you ’til six tonight to get me that translation.”

I could seriously hug her. “Thanks.”

She beams at me again, and I think maybe I don’t give this school enough credit. They had enough sense to hire someone like her, at least.

*   *   *

I swing by the library before dinner to type up my translation and e-mail it to Ms. C. When I finish, I find myself at the circulation desk asking where I can find old Wheatley School yearbooks.

“Second-floor stacks,” the librarian tells me. “But if you want editions older than 1930, you’ll have to go to the archives.”

I thank her and head upstairs. The second floor of the library is only one of many places at the Wheatley School where I don’t like to be alone. The first floor was renovated years ago to look like a replica of the Harvard Library, but the upstairs was left intact. Everything, especially the spiral staircase, creaks upon contact, and the ceiling is claustrophobically low. It stinks of old books and mold.

I find two rows of yearbooks on the shelf opposite the volumes of history books on the Wheatley School. I left the missing edition in my room. Since Isabella never returned it, I definitely don’t want to get caught with it.

I run my fingers across dusty spines: 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982. Matt Weaver went missing in 1981. I take all four yearbooks and find an armchair in the corner.

The photograph in my bag feels like contraband. Which is obviously silly, since I have real contraband in there. (Pepper spray. My dorm was broken into. I’m not screwing around.) I smooth down the peeling corners of the photo and flip through the 1980 yearbook until I find the student portraits. Matt Weaver would have been a sophomore that spring.

I scan the sophomore class for Pierce Conroy. For a split second, I fill up with hope that I was wrong about Brent’s father being in the picture. But when I turn the page to the junior class, there he is, looking up at me with that familiar impish grin.

My mouth is dry. I flip back to the sophomore class. Right next to Matt Weaver is Steven Westbrook. I confirm that it’s him in the crew team photo and see if I can attach any more faces to names.

It doesn’t take me long to make my first match. Lawrence Tretter, a chubby boy with sand-colored hair in a crew cut. Then, Thom Ennis, the scrawny freckled guy on the other side of Matt Weaver. Travis Shepherd, who is good-looking in an odd way, despite having hair down to his shoulders and a small space between his front teeth.

I enter the names into a note on my phone. As I motion to check out the senior class, someone says my name.

I snap the yearbook shut, the photo tucked between its pages. Cole Redmond gives me a funny look, his laptop case slung over his shoulder.

“Hey. What are you doing up here?” I ask.

“Typing up my reflection on the Rembrandt slides.” Cole and I have art history together. “Too many people downstairs.”

What he really means is too many talk when they see Cole nowadays. In a school with only two hundred students, there are no secrets.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together. He nods to the yearbooks in my lap.

“You’re going to think I’m a loser.” I feign sheepishness. “I met Brent’s dad this weekend, and I wanted to check out what he looked like in high school.”

If Cole thinks it’s bizarre I need four yearbooks to accomplish this task, he doesn’t show it. A smile plays on his lips. Cole is ridiculously good-looking, but unlike Brent, he’s unaware of it. Most of the time. “I’m sure Brent was thrilled about that.”

“Elated.” I play with the charm around my neck and meet Cole’s eyes. “Hey. Are we okay?”

“What do you mean?” His hands go into his pockets.

“I mean, if you want to hate me, I understand.”

“I could never hate you.” Cole’s hazel eyes are honest. And sad. “I hate what my mom did. And my dad for being a prick and driving her to do it.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “There’s no excuse for cheating.”